


Shepherd's Pie

by TheRedheadinQuestion



Series: VegLock [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 01:57:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1670486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRedheadinQuestion/pseuds/TheRedheadinQuestion





	Shepherd's Pie

"Where are we off to then?" John asked as he stood beside Sherlock at the kerb.

"Field trip. Important items must be obtained." Sherlock raised his arm and a cab appeared from thin air. He opened the door and ushered John inside.

"What items?"

Sherlock slid his hand onto John's knee and gave him a half smile. "You’ll see.”

They stopped at an open air market. Sherlock quickly wove through the stalls, John trailing after, until he stopped at one particular booth. He turned and grinned, displaying the items with a flourish of an arm.

"Potatoes John. Loads of potatoes. Our next veg adventure."

John blanched. "Now hold on...certain things are fine, but potatoes? They don't have any sort of handle, now do they?” He leaned toward Sherlock and lowered his voice. “I've seen cases with things stuck up arses, and no way in hell will I become one of them.” His face grew red at the very idea.

Sherlock grinned fondly. Honestly, he expected such a reaction. "John. Do you really think I would allow that to happen?" Before he could reply, Sherlock reached into one of his many coat pockets and pulled out a bundle of kitchen twine and a packet of upholstery needles.

"But take these and string several, in such a way that they can't escape, and one would create some fascinating anal beads." Sherlock enjoyed each look as it crossed his boyfriend's face. Indignation turned into realization, then shifted into something that smouldered.

"Uh...yeah." John said as he cleared his throat. "That would be. Interesting." He moved closer to Sherlock and together they inspected the available bounty.

Half an hour later, they'd selected some nice fingerlings, along with carrots and celery. John was squirmy all the way home, and Sherlock smirked.

 ***

 "What do you want, brother mine?"

"Mycroft, is that any way to treat your only brother?"

"Forgive me for being sceptical. You only call when you want something."

"Only your company. Come to dinner?"

"Why?"

“Can’t I desire an evening of conversation with you?”

“Frankly, no. What do you want?”

“Fine. I require your assistance.”

“Where do you do need to break into this time?”

“Not that. This is more of a culinary matter.”

“Sherlock? I’m late for a meeting. I'd like to know why.”

Sherlock sighed. “John laughed when I told him I could recreate mummy’s shepherd’s pie. He must be proven wrong.”

“And I fit in…how, exactly?”

“You’re the only other person who can adequately gauge my seasoning ratio. You know mummy never measured anything when she cooked."

"Yes, an atrocious habit for sure." Mycroft considered Sherlock's invitation. How he adored that particular dish. "Is this some illicit plan to drug me again?"

"That was one time, Mycroft. One. John made me swear to never do it again."

"Well, I was planning to spend the evening with Gregory."

"Bring him along. It'd be nice to see Graham."

"Sherlock. Ever hear the phrase 'beating a dead horse'? Use his given name.”

“Fine.”

“What’s the wager?”

“Excuse me?”

"Surely this is a wager between you and Dr. Watson?"

"The loser has kitchen duty.  For a month."

Mycroft laughed. "Now that, brother dear, is a wager I'd love to see you lose."

"Never mind that. Just be here at seven."

"Until then."

Sherlock hung up and grinned. To quote that tedious 80's movie John made him watch last night, "He bought it."

***

At precisely seven o’clock, Sherlock heard familiar footsteps on the stairs and a knock on the door.

"Come." Sherlock called from the kitchen.

"My, that smells heavenly."

"Detective Inspector not with you? Is there a case?"

"Nothing so interesting dear brother. He said, and I quote, _'No way in hell am I eating anything Sherlock made. Especially without John supervising'_."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "One time. I'll never live that down."

"It's but one of many, brother mine."

Mycroft took a seat and placed the napkin in his lap as Sherlock poured him a glass of wine. The shepherd's pie lay on a trivet in the middle of the table. It was strange to see the kitchen table cleared of its usual collection of beakers, notebooks and miscellany.

Sherlock handed him the serving spoon, and Mycroft helped himself to a heaping portion of the dish. Delicately browned yet creamy mash perched atop a mélange of beef, carrots and celery, all melded together in a lovely brown sauce. He took a taste and was transported back to his childhood. Of Mummy pulling this dish out of the oven to celebrate her little Myc's latest triumph at school. Oh to be young again.

"Well?" Sherlock asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Sublime." Mycroft paused to look at Sherlock, who was eating his own portion with a small smile. "You’ve got the wager well in hand."

"I'm happy you approve."

***

Later, as Mycroft lay in bed, limbs intertwined with Greg's, he thought back to the shepherd's pie. Sherlock accurately replicated mummy's recipe, including the spice palette that she so stubbornly refused to reveal. If his little brother accomplished it, he absolutely could. He would love to prepare it for Gregory; his beloved might appreciate the sharing of such an important part of his youth. Mycroft fell asleep with thoughts of rosemary and thyme in his head.

The next day at work, Mycroft sat at his desk with yet another report in front of him. However, his attention was focused on a scrap of paper to the side, in which he attempted to list the seasonings Sherlock incorporated. He was missing something...he just wasn't sure what. He tapped his fountain pen on the desk. Perhaps a little help was in order. It was fortunate that one camera had survived Sherlock's most recent sweep.

Mycroft opened his laptop and logged into the correct network. He selected the proper feed, then chose yesterday afternoon’s recording and sat back as it loaded. The kitchen in 221b flashed onto his screen. He fast-forwarded until Sherlock entered the room. Mycroft watched as he took potatoes and other vegetables from the fridge and scrubbed them in the sink. Sherlock removed kitchen twine and a large upholstery needle from a drawer and began stringing the thick fingerlings. He took another piece of the cotton twine and knotted here and there around the potatoes. Mycroft furrowed his brow; he wasn't aware of this cooking technique. Sherlock pulled at the string here and there, testing its strength, until he nodded to himself. He laid the string into a pan and added the other vegetables, then leaned against the counter and waited.

Mycroft forwarded the video a little, until John Watson came into view. He wore a towel around his waist and pressed his body against Sherlock as they met in a passionate kiss. Mycroft rolled his eyes and stared at the ceiling until movement caught the corner of his eye. Sherlock bent Dr. Watson over the kitchen table and stripped away the towel. The doctor’s arse wasn't in full view, thank goodness, but Mycroft did get the side view, which was more than enough. Mycroft hit the advance button again, willing their interlude to hurry and complete. He saw Sherlock pick up the pan of veg and lay it on the kitchen table. Mycroft clicked the video back into normal speed, and his jaw dropped as Sherlock pulled a bottle of lube from a cabinet and worked some onto the potato string. He added more to Dr. Watson's arse, and slowly began working the string of potatoes into him.

Mycroft slammed the laptop closed and turned in his chair. So they had...those two were...Sherlock used... Mycroft covered his face with his hands and groaned. So rarely was he lost for words. The mash, carrots and celery in that scrumptious shepherd's pie had actually been used...in a manner they were not intended. Mycroft's stomach churned and he felt bile at the back of his throat. This was vile, even for Sherlock.

His mind flashed back two weeks ago, when he'd popped into 221b and stayed for lunch. That look of panic on John Watson's face as Mycroft helped himself to a carrot. Sherlock’s friendliness that was so out of character. It all made sense. Sherlock was feeding him...was getting him to eat....after those two... Mycroft felt his face heat as his outrage grew cold. This would not stand. Oh no. Sherlock must be taught a lesson.

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers under his nose, and began to plot.


End file.
